


Blood Gulch Symphony Orchestra (BGSO)

by bitsby



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Music, Angst, Drama, Fluff, Humor, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Multiple, Pining, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-13
Updated: 2019-11-21
Packaged: 2020-11-02 04:17:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 13,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20619326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bitsby/pseuds/bitsby
Summary: Dick Simmons had his future all figured out. While finishing his DMA degree, he'd pull the classic Big Fish Little Pond and find the worst brass section he could in an orchestra with a decent following. He would stand out, get noticed, and become a world-renowned soloist. And it looked like his plan was finally coming together, as he just got offered principal chair for what seemed like the perfect target: the Blood Gulch Symphony Orchestra.//This is going to be a long term project updated weekly-- tags will be added as things happen. Main focus is on Grimmons, but will get heavier into Tuckington as the story progresses.





	1. The Plan

A nervous, tired, yet determined-looking redhead rested his head against the window inside of the bus. He absently watched the Manhattan skyline zip by, drawing his brows together as he focused on the music from his headphones, tapping his fingers in patterns against the folder in his lap with rhythmic precision.

The volume was set low to protect his hearing, to not bother anyone sitting nearby, and so no one would question why he wasn't listening to something more modern, less nerdy, _cool_. Not that any fellow passerby had ever asked him or gave a shit as an adult; but he heard enough of it growing up to still worry about the potential awkward interaction nonetheless.

The same five songs played on repeat. Probably for the past two weeks straight, if he had to guess, to ensure every detail was drilled into his brain.

Haydn and Beethoven. Haydn and Beethoven. Haydn and Beethoven.

Sure, most of the movements were string-heavy, but that was to be expected. The Blood Gulch Symphony Orchestra was known for its string section and definitely not its brass. And that's exactly why this was a perfect fit for him, since he played trumpet; a brass instrument.

Really, it made logical sense. It did.

When a stranger randomly asked Richard "Dick" Simmons in a practice room last year, _"You ever wonder why we're here?"_ his answer was a blunt and resounding, _"No."_ It's an age-old question that so many have repeated and tried to answer for themselves: to give purpose to their life, their actions, validate their existence in a seemingly unimportant little speck of time and space. But Simmons always had the answer, even when it wasn't a question. He's always had goals that he followed, goals that drove him. Be the best. Not second place. Make something of himself. Be someone that mattered. Be _someone_.

He may have revisited this question as rejection after rejection arrived as emails and voicemails after every audition at orchestras around the nation. His original plan to complete his Master's and land a chair in a prestigious U.S. orchestra wasn't going as well as he hoped, to say the least.

But Simmons, being the actionable man he is, learned to be adaptable after a life of repeated failures. And now, he had a _better_ plan. And _really_, it made sense.

While Simmons was still in school finishing his DMA degree, he'd pull the classic "big fish little pond" strategy and find the worst brass section he could in a local orchestra with a decent following. His skills would stand out, he'd get noticed, and he'd become a world-renowned soloist by the time he received his Doctorate's. Simple.

And finally, The Plan was coming to fruition as he was just offered principal chair for what seemed like the perfect target: the Blood Gulch Symphony Orchestra. It really was as simple as that.

The spot opened up because the previous principal trumpet moved to Georgia, or he was in a sky diving accident... the details escaped Simmons, since he was too focused at the time trying to win over the director at their post-audition lunch interview three weeks ago.

As the chime rang to announce his stop, Simmons controlled his breathing more deliberately to reduce his increasing heart rate. He unzipped his instrument case on the floor to slide in his sheet music folder, then slung the backpack case over his shoulder as he stepped off the bus.

Although still anxious, he couldn't stop a grin from forming as he looked up at the giant **BGSO** lettering on the building outside of the recital hall.

Dick Simmons strutted towards the hall, ready to start his first professional rehearsal and a new chapter in his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sup! So this is the start of a project I've had planned for a bit. Hope you guys enjoy it and see you around. :^)


	2. Red Clay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Simmons meets his colleagues.

Simmons took another deep breath as he grasped the handle of the door leading to the stage. The muffled sounds of droning warmup tones and scales became as crisp and clear as the bright sliver of light that shined through the crevice of the opening door.

He was half an hour early, so not many people had arrived or taken their seats yet. Simmons sighed in relief as he walked across the flat, black expanse. No one had turned to face him or make an ordeal out of his entrance, minding their business to continue their exercises.

As his eyes adjusted to the glaring lights above, he paused to admire the cavernous space beyond the stage. Pristine, detailed wood paneling decorated the entirety of the hall, coffered and faceted along the ceiling and walls, while deep red carpet contrasted the dark wood and cushioned black rows of seats. Thankfully, it was a familiar sight. Simmons performed here over the past year for school ensembles, after all. So, it was one less reason to feel out of place or more distressed than necessary.

"Oh! You must be the new guy!"

Simmons snapped out of his daze to turn towards the cheery voice behind him, anxiety spiking tandem with the action.

"Hey, yeah. Uh, Dick Simmons." He extended his hand to shake the excited blonde's, which was already outstretched before Simmons had even turned around.

"Oh, I _love_ Dick-- great name! Nice to meet you, fellow blower!" the man exclaimed, shaking Simmons' hand with the grip of a professional baseball player as the redhead delivered a mildly perturbed look.

"... You can just call me Simmons."

His preferred name was a problem throughout his life.

_Richard_ was reserved for his father and was too much of a reminder of him, anyway.

_Dick_ left him wide open for immature jokes. But, being surrounded by mature and respectful adults, it really shouldn't be a problem (although he already questioned the _mature_ note with this guy). But, childhood, bullying-- y'know, that whole thing.

_Simmons_ also reminded him of his father, obviously, especially when others recognized the surname and asked if there was any relation. Simmons Sr. owned a major tech corporation with offices throughout the East Coast, a couple sports teams, and probably a few other financial ventures that Simmons wasn't aware of, so this happened more often than he preferred.

Out of the three, _Simmons_ tended to work out the best for his overall mental health, after logical deduction and reasoning.

The younger blonde smiled as he released his grasp to place his hands on his hips. Simmons winced as he kneaded the relinquished hand.

"Whatever floats your boat, Simmons! The name's Franklin Delano Donut, but lots of folks call me Big D."

"_No one_ fuckin' calls you that, Donut," someone snorted while passing the two, weaving through the chairs towards the front of the stage.

"No one _you_ know!" Donut scoffed, pointing his nose upward at the violist's back. Ponytailed dreadlocks flipped over a shoulder as the latter turned in his seat to roll his eyes exaggeratedly at Donut, who continued, "And _you_ only don't because you haven't seen _my_ big--"

"A new recruit!" a gruff, Southern-accented voice loudly interrupted as Simmons felt a hand roughly clap onto his shoulder. He turned to face a guy who could probably be the same age as his grandfather. A much younger, unimpressed, sullen Mexican man hovered closely behind.

"Um, right, I'm--"

"Simmons-- I know about my men! Heard yer finishin' up at Juilliard in a year or two. Good man," the older man said with a proud chuckle. Simmons felt his chest swell up.

"Thank you, sir! Uh--"

"_Oooh_! You're going to school here?! You must be good! Do you have any classes with Ca--"

"Name's Sarge, and this here's Lopez." Sarge seemed to be well-versed in cutting off conversations. Simmons shook his hand.

"I... wait, _Sarge_? Is that really--"

"My first name, yessir. Mama was a saint, bless her soul." Sarge raised his chin to look wistfully up at the ceiling, toward the heavens beyond.

"... Right," Simmons responded skeptically. He then offered his hand to Lopez. Lopez didn't take it, simply nodding at him. Simmons withdrew his hand and nodded back. He actually appreciated a quiet interaction after how the other encounters of the morning had gone so far.

As the four bantered back and forth about the ensemble and occasionally asked Simmons about his life (although, Donut took up probably 80% of the dialogue, and Lopez's contributions mainly consisted of grunts or one-word insults in Spanish), other members entered the hall and filed into their seats. Some nodded or waved towards the group in greeting, but most silently beelined to their positions to warm up.

"Small group," Simmons noted as almost everyone had arrived. He already knew this since he had asked the director about it, but it really was oddly sized. Around sixty people in total and particularly sparse in the brass department.

And as he learned from the conversation thus far, he was already speaking to basically the entire section.

Donut kept bringing up fisting, and although that wasn't proper technique, Simmons unsafely assumed that to mean he was their French horn player.

Apparently, there was another guy named Frank who often subbed for Donut (even though, "he's more of a top," Donut mentioned), and sometimes for Sarge or Lopez ("he plays both sides," Donut added-- Simmons took _both sides_ to mean high and low brass).

Sarge was the trombonist and appeared to be the unspoken leader or mentor of their section (which for some unknown reason he kept referring to as _Red Team_), based on Simmons' initial impression. He at first believed this was due to Sarge's age, tenure, or maturity. Simmons quickly determined after hearing the man say things such as, "_Men... today we go into battle against one of the greatest composers known to both man and God_," and other rallying phrases, that it was more because of his... personality, for lack of a better word.

Lopez played tuba. Supposedly, he was in a locally popular mariachi band that performed around the city, and also periodically gigged with a jazz combo as a vocalist during Spanish ballads. He didn't speak a lick of English, so Donut often translated for the man when he actually did speak, apparently quite accurately according to Donut and Sarge. Lopez shook his head as the latter two nodded agreeably at the last comment.

The only other brass member that had yet to make an introduction was their second trumpet, who the others referred to as Grif, Dirtbag, or Pendejo. Donut surmised that, "He's likely still sleeping around somewhere." ("Like the lazy, good-fer-nothin' that he is," Sarge remarked with ire.) Simmons didn't learn much else about him since Donut's explanations were continually overridden by irate insults about the man.

"Well, we should probably join everyone else, then!" suggested Donut. Simmons was about to nod in agreement, until he realized Donut had dropped to the floor to begin stretching his hammies. Uh, to each his own. Simmons didn't like to judge others' routines. Not too much, anyway. Well, he definitely still questioned them at times.

He navigated to his chair in the back row behind the woodwinds, taking out his trumpet to begin his warm up. Of course, there were expectations, but this should be easy. It was his first day. Not that Simmons needed that as an excuse if he messed up. And not that he would mess up, since he ensured his preparedness for this rehearsal by skipping some of his classes and sleeping less to get some extra practice time in for the past couple of weeks. And it's not like he hasn't been doing this or going to perfectly normal, standard rehearsals for the past decade of his life, so why should today be any different? It was only a different orchestra. Yeah. This should be easy. Nothing to fret too much about.

"Dude, you look like you're gonna faint."

A larger, tanned man plopped down onto the empty chair beside Simmons, dropping his case haphazardly to the ground in front of him. Simmons faltered at the top of an arpeggio and stopped to blink at him, unsure of how to respond. He didn't realize how ragged and uneven his breaths were until he paused.

"You gonna be alright? Forget your inhaler or something?" was added with an amused smirk.

Simmons' face instantly heated up, and he pretended to ignore the asshole's comment as he resumed the same arpeggio.

Simmons glanced over while still playing, watching as the other musician took out a fairly weathered Bach Strad from the equally-beaten-up hard case. Even though they had the exact same model, Simmons' instrument seemed polished and fresh off of the production line, a stark contrast to the trumpet that looked like it barely survived World War II.

Similarly, Simmons noticed, everything about the two men in appearance were polar opposites: Polished Oxfords, dirty Adidas. Clean-pressed khakis, jeans with frayed ends. Maroon button-down, orange hoodie. Lean and lanky, heavy and built. Pale white, tanned bronze. Bright blue, deep amber. Light red neatly-styled comb over, dark brown messy man bun. Tense, calm. Fretful and nervous frown, handsome and charismatic smile.

His mind stopped iterating through comparisons at the last thought for some reason.

"I'm Grif, by the way," the larger man drawled, leaning back in his chair with a lopsided grin. Grif rested his horn in his lap with no apparent intent to play any time soon.

Simmons kept at it, finishing a chromatic run.

"Simmons," he stated shortly, then inhaled and started another.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Idk what I was thinking when I originally rated this Teen, then Hero of Plot and Everything!Donut reminded me of the kinds of things I like to say, so we're just gonna change this now to be safe...


	3. Out of Nowhere

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Simmons has his first rehearsal with BGSO.

When Dr. Church stepped up to the conductor's podium, Simmons wasn't too anxious. He straightened his back while perched at the edge of his seat and cleared his throat. He already went over what he would say after being introduced, practiced it mentally a few times on the way here, practiced it aloud more than a few times to himself in his apartment the night before. A short, gracious welcome. Nothing too verbose or overly grateful.

When Dr. Church flipped through his score, announcing with a low, Southern drawl, "Haydn, Andante, first repeat measure nine," and lifted his baton without another word, Simmons was anxious. Or relieved. Maybe both, simultaneously. Okay. It's not like the director had forgotten he was there. Well. This was fine. He didn't have to awkwardly stand out, didn't have to worry about potentially screwing up his preamble and be known as a stuttering asshole for the rest of his tenure here. Right, this was better.

Still made him feel pretty shitty for some reason, though.

"Oh yeah, and don't think I'm gonna turn your pages for you," Grif droned as he took out his phone.

"What? We don't share a desk, we're not even strings--"

"Exactly why I'm not doing it," he flatly concluded, booting up a mobile game.

Simmons stared at him incredulously. Was this guy fucking stupid?

"Whatever-- it doesn't matter, I memorized all of the pieces, anyway," he muttered to Grif under his breath while others had entered playing positions.

"Dude, _seriously_? It's your first day."

"Right, the most important day to be prepared," Simmons said indicatively.

"I can tell we have so much in common already." Grif groaned.

Yeah-- he was probably an idiot, definitely lacking in work ethic, and at the very least a douchebag-- and of course, the one person Simmons would have to interact with the most out of anyone here. _Great_. Just his luck.

Must be some weird celestial karma for being principal chair for the first time in his life.

He'd never been first, could never stand out enough using his own hard-earned skills. He definitely wasn't bad-- far from it, actually-- but others' talent surpassed the miles and miles of practice he put in to keep at pace with the best. Getting accepted into universities would have been a challenge, but Simmons Sr. used his connections to get him into Eastman for his undergrad and Master's. He'd like to believe that he had the competence and aptitude to succeed on his own, but Simmons was opportunistic. It would be stupid to turn down a free advantage, as much as it put a sour taste in his mouth.

His father even managed to set him up as the department's teacher's assistant when he got accepted at Juilliard for his Doctorate's, which included a stipend and free tuition. But, as his amazing luck would have it yet again, the school ended up pulling the position for "funding" that year (which is absolute bullshit because what the _fuck_ the school is loaded--). So, all brass was consolidated under a single TA position, which was awarded to one of the other DMA students. Simmons Sr. warned that he wouldn't assist with paying tuition (not that Simmons had ever asked for help) unless he could prove his worth by at least obtaining principal chair in one of the collegiate ensembles (which, yes, is fucked in its own right, but he always had to prove himself to his father in one way or another, so it became commonplace after 26 years). But it never happened, his efforts always landed him second, and BGSO apparently didn't count in Simmons Sr.'s eyes, so now he has the joy of an impending large amount of student loan debt to look forward to, on top of normal living expenses, and even though BGSO pays decently per service he'll still have to pick up more private lessons to teach but he probably has a few hours to spare between classes and sleep and assignments and practice and really he should consider picking up another job maybe those few hours a week might help but maybe he could also--

Simmons held his instrument at the ready before he could spiral down that line of thought for the 365th day straight for the past year.

Grif raised his head at the movement. "You've got like thirty-seven more measures until you come in, chill out." His eyes fixated on his phone again.

Simmons released an indignant snort. He counted the remaining rests just to shove the fact in Grif's face that he's not even paying attention so he shouldn't--

Okay, huh. Thirty-seven, from the moment he made the comment. It probably-- no, it _was_ a fluke. It's unlikely this dumbass memorized his own parts, let alone Simmons'.

"Do you always talk this much during services?" Simmons questioned scornfully. "We're not even supposed to have our phones out, _asshole_."

"What else am I gonna do for a 200 measure rest, _nerdhole_?" Grif glanced up briefly to raise an eyebrow at Simmons, as if it was an obvious response.

"Nerdhole--? That doesn't even--" Simmons trailed off with an aggravated huff.

When the time came thirty-something measures later, Simmons performed confidently, precisely, then momentarily wondered if Grif would miss his entrance in the next passage. It's not like he was responsible for the guy's actions, but it would reflect poorly on their small section and thus himself individually.

He was grateful that Grif was at least attentive enough to come in at the right time. And he had a decent timbre, too, at least from what he could tell with the initial simple pulse of tones. Simmons gave a sideways glance at the other man, who was awkwardly holding his trumpet with one hand, because he still had his phone in the other, tapping away at some colorful blocks on the screen. While he was. Performing. During. A paid rehearsal.

"Are you seriously fucking playing while on your phone? Put it away!" Simmons scolded quickly through gritted teeth during a short rest.

"It's all straight quarter notes, man. You're just jealous of my multitasking skills," Grif sneered, finishing the comment right at the start of the following phrase.

Simmons was enraged and distracted enough to flub a note or two.

"Plus, you're the one that keeps messing up, not me," Grif tacked on at the next pause before playing again.

"_What?!_ That was--"

A sweeping movement from the podium, then silence.

Simmons snapped his head forward.

"I know it's exciting making new friends, Mr. Simmons," Dr. Church began with reproach.

_Shit._

"But you're in a professional setting, not a grade school band. Watch your entrances." He raised his baton again, and Simmons felt his stomach drop to the floor.

_God fucking dammit._

The remainder of the morning passed without much event, mainly because the director decided to run through string-only sections for about an hour straight.

Simmons was too busy sulking to even bother reprimanding Donut when he began a riveting game of Go Fish with the surrounding "Red Team" members, choosing not to participate with a furtive shake of his head. This shit was to be expected at this point, he thought as he watched Lopez narrow his eyes in his direction and hold up three fingers. Grif squinted back, then reached over Sarge and Simmons to pass Lopez a card. Simmons rubbed his face and sighed during the exchange.

Although it was part of The Plan, he hadn't considered how frustrating it might be working with a section that wasn't taken seriously, or that they wouldn't take themselves seriously in turn. When listening to recordings of recent recitals prior to accepting the position, he deduced that all of the brass players were mediocre at best. Annoying to deal with, as it turned out, but Simmons would shine through the rabble.

And finally, he could start proving that sentiment, since Dr. Church started on the last movement which featured a lengthier, triumphant trumpet fanfare.

Hopefully, Grif wouldn't detract from his part too much.

Simmons sure as hell wasn't expecting him to do the opposite.

He nearly lost his shit when he heard Grif really harmonize with him for the first time. They sounded _good_ together. _Amazing_, actually. Perfectly in tune, dynamically synergistic, both nailing the more difficult technical bits, and Grif's tone throughout was dark, rich, robust-- probably objectively better than his own. Not that he'd ever admit it, but. What. The. Fuck.

Simmons' mind raced as their duet rang out and dominated the hall. In none of the ensemble's recordings had he heard a single decent brass-- during some pieces, it was just plain _awful_. So seriously, _what the fuck?_ Did Grif replace their second chair right before Simmons was hired? Had the director not bothered to mention this because he didn't give a shit about their section? Did Grif try out for his position but Simmons won it instead and that's why Grif was being such a dick?

Simmons blinked, dumbfounded, as Grif went back to playing his phone game after their perfect rendition of the passage passed.

Seriously, where the fuck did this guy come from?


	4. Blue Skies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tucker meets another nerd.

"Hey, those assholes actually sound kinda decent for once."

"But Grif has always sounded good," Caboose insisted. Church rolled his eyes.

"You're just saying that because you guys always play together."

"_You're_ just saying that because you are jealous that we always play together."

As Church choked out some random-ass syllables while adjusting his glasses like a total nerd, Tucker slammed his viola case down onto a chair in front of the two. Church recovered enough to start yelping, "_Tucker, what in th--_," but was ignored.

"Today sucked _so_ hard. What'd you do to piss the old man off this morning?" Tucker glared at Church.

"I didn't do shit, man-- 'sides, we had to suffer through that, too." Church groaned as he and Caboose put their cellos away almost perfectly in sync with each other.

"Yeah, but at least you're hiding out near the Reds and not in the director's line of fire up front."

"Not my fault I'm sitting in the back row."

"It literally is-- you suck, dude. You're lucky Caboose is making up for your sorry ass so you don't get kicked out again."

Tucker never really understood it. Caboose was already on Church's ass enough anyway (heh, like every night, or at least Church wishes _bowchickabowwow_)-- but seriously, why'd he feel the need to cover his ass every rehearsal, too? Like, Church wasn't _that_ great-- Tucker would know since he was actually his best friend (oh _God_, he reminded himself never to admit that out loud in front of Caboose again after the shitstorm from the one time it happened)-- but like, Church was at least not great enough for the big idiot to beef his auditions hard enough, on _purpose_, just so he could sit next to and bug the shit out of his self-proclaimed best friend.

As much as Tucker didn't wish for Church's situation, he'd prefer it over the polar opposite one he found himself in. Tucker was pretty awesome, if he had to admit it (and he totally would), so he wasn't too surprised when he won the principal viola spot after auditioning for BGSO a couple years ago. Easier than trying for even a section violin spot, 'cause holy shit those guys seemed way too serious. What he _was_ surprised about was the weirdass idea the director had about how to run an orchestra, which apparently involved some sort of... what'd they refer to it as, a fuckin' _leaderboard_? And like, violin is the only reputable instrument to play or somethin'? Anyway, last month, this total fuckin' tool ended up getting kicked out of the violin section and was dumped into the violas. Specifically, into _Tucker's_ spot. So he got knocked down a chair (seriously, _what the hell?_) and now had to share a desk with this stuck-up asshole like some sorta page-turnin' bitch. _Ugh_. At least his salary didn't change.

"Church, Church-- do you think after rehearsal we can--"

"Goddammit Caboose, I _told_ you, I'm not going to play with your combo."

"Oh, no, that is not what I was asking. You are not quite good enough yet for that." Caboose patted Church's head, who sputtered and jerked away from the touch. Tucker snickered at the probably unintentional sick burn.

"We should play cards with the Reds tonight so we can meet Mr. Simmons since he is now Grif's best friend!" he continued, unfazed by the others' reactions.

"Caboose, people don't instantly become best friends when they get placed next to each other. In fact, I'm pretty sure they don't get along already by the looks of it," said Tucker. The three of them regarded the lankier trumpeter's scowl directed at Grif as Sarge gave some sort of speech to his men, probably about the day's victories or whatever crazy shit the old dude usually came up with.

"But Church and I sit next to each other, and _we_ are best friends, so--"

"_Caboose_, I fucking told you, we are _not_\--"

"Tough rehearsal today," someone dryly interrupted.

Oh, _great_. Douchenozzle McAsshat. Tucker didn't even notice Wash walk up to them. So he ignored him as if he still hadn't noticed.

"Anyway, I wouldn't be able to make it tonight, need to pick up Junior later from his after-school stuff."

"... Do you need a ride?" Wash asked. He tilted his head hesitantly, adding, "I know you usually take the bus to--"

"Thanks but no thanks," Tucker coldly responded, turning his head to face the other direction.

"Fine. Just trying to help," Wash muttered under his breath as he stalked away from the group.

See? Fuckin' dick. Just assuming he's a charity case or some shit. Tucker never needed help before, and hell if he'd ask it from someone who rode his ass every day and not in the totally awesome way.

"Dude, you don't have to be such a goddamn prick to the guy just because--" Church started, but Tucker stopped him from saying something that would have been stupid anyway.

"Let's go meet the new guy or whatever. It'll be nice having some fresh blood to win off of for poker nights."

"Yay!" Caboose cheered and manhandled Tucker and Church, pulling them excitedly over to where the brass members congregated in the back of the hall.

"Ah _ha!_ See, son, these are the dirty Blues I was warnin' ya about. Don't try to fraternize with the enemy too much-- they're a conniving, deplorable lot." Sarge nodded wisely at Simmons, who seemed apprehensive but nodded back as if he were taking some sort of mental notes. Oh shit, he was probably a nerd like Church. But like, more Red.

Church huffed. "Don't mind him. Also, Sarge is the one that started all this Blue and Red shit-- it doesn't mean anything," he noted, appearing to read Simmons' mind as he opened his mouth to most likely ask about it. Must be geek ESP.

"That's _Red and Blue_ to you, blue devil."

"I'm Church, and this is Tucker and Caboose," introduced Church, immune to Sarge's wack comments after dealing with them for years.

Simmons started to shake each of their hands, but did a double take at Church, glancing momentarily at the conductor's podium.

"Nice to meet-- wait, _Church?_ Like--"

"Yep! The director is Daddy Church," Donut clarified.

"Please never say that again, ever. But yeah, he's my dad," Church clarified further.

"_Oh!_" Caboose clapped his hands together. "Mr. Simmons, I recognize you now that you are closer!"

"Wait... you do look familiar..." Simmons furrowed his brow in contemplation.

"Oh, yes! I saw you last year in a practice room. I asked you a question and then you kept playing, yes."

"I knew you guys would know each other from school!" Donut happily remarked.

"Ah, so that was you. You go to Juilliard, too? What are you studying?" Simmons looked suspicious, which Tucker wasn't surprised about considering a student at the fancy-schmancy prestigious school was sitting in almost dead last in his section.

"Um, well, you see, I mostly play bass with one or two of the faculty ensembles, and sometimes solos if they ask me. Yeah, but I do take some classes for fun, and also I teach one sometimes when the teacher is busy!" Caboose beamed.

"Yeah, but Hammer's a dick, so you're doing everyone a favor there," Grif added, smirking at the paling redhead.

Tucker felt a strange chill dash through him for a moment.

"Wait, why do you-- how do you know--" Simmons stammered.

"Oh, yes, Professor Hammer also taught when Grif got his Bachelorette's degree with me. But he will not go back to school anymore because I stopped doing his homework, but we are still living together," Caboose said, frowning at Grif who rolled his eyes in return. Simmons somehow became even more pale than he naturally was.

"Anyway," Church coughed, "Tucker can't make it, but do you guys wanna play some cards at my place in a couple hours? It isn't too far from here."

"Oh, uh--" Simmons seemed caught off-guard. "I appreciate the invite, but I had plans tonight, so maybe next time?" Tucker wondered if he actually meant it, or if he was just an introvert trying to avoid any social interaction and pretending to be a polite functioning human at the moment.

"Awww, party pooper!" Donut crossed his arms. "You can't make the same excuse next time, though, mister! I'll tie you down and show you a good time myself if I have to!"

"God dammit, Donut..." Grif pinched the bridge of his nose with an exasperated sigh. He gave Simmons a sidelong glance.

_What the_\--? There was that weird feeling again...

"... Don't worry about it, nerd." Grif shifted his shoulders back, a small upward curl forming in the corner of his mouth. "They're stupid, too-- more than us, but fun guys when they're not being total morons."

Oh.

Holy. _Shit_.

He'd have to make sure to start a bet with Church as soon as everyone else left. Tucker could feel it in his bones-- Grif was _totally_ gonna end up falling for Red Nerd.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's some alternate-version crack that ended up happening...
> 
> "Yep! The director is Daddy Church," Donut clarified.
> 
> "Please never say that again, ever. But yeah, he's my dad," Church clarified further.
> 
> "Yeahhh, that is only what I get to call Church, when we are doing things that best friends do. He told me this and said to not tell anyone. Yeah, Church doesn't like when I tell other people that he doesn't just scream at me to stop talking, but that he screams even _louder_ and in a very happy best friend way while I'm inside his--"
> 
> Church died (again). the end back to ur regularly scheduled grimmons


	5. All My Tomorrows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A nerd walks into a bar, and there's no punchline.

The dining area was quiet, the tables mostly empty-- but the energetic buzz of patrons would fill the space soon enough. Simmons always arrived an hour early on Tuesdays to claim his usual spot: a small, round table at the side of the stage, the one closest to the leftmost piano out of the two set in the back of the room.

The first time he stepped foot into Harmonia last year, the refined decor and lulling ambiance surprised him. The location for such a venue was peculiar, hidden away in tiny Korea Town near the Empire State Building. It was clean, immaculately so, dimly lit without seeming dingy, and the air was cool, but not uncomfortable. Other piano bars had that warm, clammy, dive atmosphere, with people and tables packed in a suffocating close proximity. Harmonia was much more suited to his preferences.

And since his apartment was only a few blocks away, it was only a matter of time before Simmons found himself being referred to as one of the regulars by the staff. He even chatted with the owner a few times. With how the British gentleman so eloquently spoke while displaying quite a timid nature, he paralleled the environment snugly, fitting in with Shakespearean aesthetic and ornate tones and trims adorning the walls.

Normally, during the hour's wait before the designated show time, history or theory homework would be splayed across the table, pencil scribbling away on staff paper. His head swayed to the soft classical melodies floating from the second piano across the stage, absentmindedly bouncing his heel with the underlying beat. The juxtaposition regarding the pianist was amusing; an intimidatingly large man in a suit, face patterned with a striking set of scars, playing the most placid and delicate of repertoire with dainty finesse.

And, normally, Simmons didn't order a drink from the bar other than water with extra ice, which is probably why the waiter raised a curious eyebrow when he asked for gin neat. The same eyebrow was raised again, albeit in concern, when Simmons asked for another two minutes later. The man nodded politely and returned with the order nonetheless.

This was not a normal Tuesday, so fuck it.

Simmons slumped over his table, chin planted in the palm of one hand, glaring at the glass rocking back and forth in the other. His trumpet sat on the floor between his feet, and sheet music and school work were left stuffed in its case.

Initially, the discoveries made on his first day upset-- well, it just frazzled Simmons. And only just a little bit. Others going to the same school? That was fine, normal, to be expected since it was down the street. Others apparently having the same plan to stand out? Okay. Well, not all ideas are original. And it wouldn't have really mattered, but one of those people was the only other musician in his section. But, walking out of rehearsal with Grif and learning about the fact that he had a different agenda on top of... other things? That made Simmons even more upset-- furious-- uh, just, frustrated. Because it was fucking _stupid_.

\---

"Whadd'you mean?"

"You heard me! Why the _fuck_ would you drop out of Juilliard with a full ride? Do you know how uncommon it is for undergrad brass to get one? Do you know how hard people try to even get accepted at all?!"

"Meh, at least I got my bachelor's-- good enough for me. Who cares about other people's problems if I'm the one that doesn't wanna keep doin' it?" Grif shrugged as Simmons fumed beside him. And even though it was stupid and ignorant, Simmons technically couldn't argue with him. But what a waste-- he couldn't comprehend throwing an opportunity that significant away so easily.

Curiosity continued to crawl through him, definitely not stemming from wanting to know if he was better than Grif objectively from another person's decision. "So... did you audition for principal when it opened? Since you didn't quit the orchestra like you did school, it's not like it would have hurt to try."

"The director wanted me to, but screw that, man. Same pay and more work? No thanks." It started to drizzle when they finally made it outside, so Grif slipped his hoodie over his head, then resumed, "When I auditioned while both seats were open, I made sure to play shitty enough so I didn't have to do any solos."

"... _What?_" Simmons halted, mouth agape, at the top of the stairs leading to the hall's entrance.

"Yeah-- trick I picked up from Boose. Genius, huh? He could easily be first in any of the string sections if he wanted to, though. Easier to get last when there's only two of us, right?" Grif grinned and elbowed his side before hopping down the steps.

"See ya tomorrow, nerd," he called out, waving lazily without looking back.

Simmons remained rooted in place, slack-jawed and motionless aside from an eye beginning to twitch. His hair was getting damp, but his umbrella stayed tightly gripped in his hand.

\---

Caboose's voice from a year ago drifted across his mind as he swirled his glass.

_ "You ever wonder why we're here?" _

Fuck if he knew. Maybe it was just the booze answering this time, though.

Simmons should be happy he's principal chair, regardless if it was essentially a free handout. That was Grif's issue and idiotic decision, not his. But still. Did he deserve it? Did he deserve any sort of success? Did the success even count if it was so empty?

He stopped asking himself questions as the other diners around him began to applaud. A second pianist, much smaller in stature compared to the first, appeared on stage to bow dramatically. He flashed a smile across the room as he sat on the bench a few feet away from Simmons' table.

Small concerts like this were the only time he felt he could listen to music and actually relax. Every time he threw on headphones nowadays, it was for studying for class and now work. Simmons always preferred playing piano, even now-- but it's impossible to get noticed with how many amazing pianists there are, more so than trumpet. So, he made the logical decision for a better chance at success to go with the less popular instrument at a very early age. He knew he wanted to at least do something with music, and he had to be somewhat distinguished if he was going to disappoint his father anyway for not going into computer science.

Simmons was pulled again from his thoughts when a hush fell over the room, and the two men on stage traded nods. This was really the only time he'd allow himself to sit down and savor some good piano, and nothing beat a live performance. Especially one with Isaac Gates. Simmons was immediately captivated by the musician after first seeing him play at Harmonia shortly after moving to the city, so he followed his performances when he could.

As he flipped his orange tie behind his shoulder with a flourish, Gates met Simmons' eyes long enough to give him a playful wink. Simmons blinked. Heat rose up his neck as the pianists started slamming out a mix of lively classical and pops tunes in a top tier piano battle for the rest of the night.


	6. Don't Blame Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grif practices.

Fussy. Goody-two-shoes. Prude. Stuck-up. Nerdy.

The antithesis of himself, from what he could tell after one and a half rehearsals.

So, riling up the new guy was a natural occurrence simply by existing in the same physical plane. They were contradictory, completely. But ironically, compatible. _Complementary._ It was fun. At least for Grif.

Well, actually, Simmons thought his antics were entertaining, too-- to some extent, anyway. During their current game of Go Fish in the back row, while he could have whispered to the blonde sitting at his side, he instead chose to curl his fingers and jerk his wrist a few times in a totally hilarious gesture. Donut immediately whined and handed over a card as Simmons observed, disapproving yet confused.

With a smug nudge of his elbow, Grif flashed his newly acquired jack of spades to Simmons. Although the eye roll that accompanied his snort was judgmental, the nerd _did_ crack the smallest of smiles before reinstating his resting bitch-face. So, maybe not as prudish as he originally thought, and apparently some sense of humor.

Observing the annoyed twitch of Simmons' brow, the pout of his lower lip, how could Grif _not_ slip out a self-satisfied smirk?

Yeah, messing with this dude was more amusing that Grif would care to admit. So he wasn't gonna be doing that any time soon.

But, maybe he could get his number or something when they were done for the day, to, uh, have more opportunities to antagonize Simmons. Since it was enjoyable. Like, objectively speaking. Pushing his buttons was, uh, that. Oh, and because they're in the same section or whatever. That's probably a better excuse-- _reason._ For contacting him outside of work. In case something happened.

Yep. Grif was just doing the other guy a favor.

Asking him directly would be kind of... well, not that Grif ever had a problem being forward-- and why would that even be a problem? He was just getting a coworker's contact information. But eliciting a funny reaction from Simmons with the threat of a socially awkward situation as a thinly veiled disguise for getting his digits sounded like the best way to go about it.

Chairs shifted, and faint murmuring began to rise into full conversations around them as the director stepped away from the stage. Grif closed the clasps on the case in his lap, not questioning why his heart rate jumped up 14 BPM before his completely casual remark.

"Donut wasn't lying about showing you a good time yesterday if you don't hang out. You should probably come chill at my place some time so you don't have to figure out what that's about."

Simmons' eyes widened at the suggestion, his cheeks noticeably darker. It was cute.

What? _Funny._ Not--

"I mean, my place-- Boose and my place, as in another place the Reds and Blues frequent, as a group, as in not individually," Grif clarified very concisely and not hastily at all.

"Seems like all you guys do is goof off. Do you ever practice outside of here?" Simmons asked with more concern than scorn.

"Nope," Grif lied. Why was he trying to get under his skin at every opportunity? Kind of hard not to when there were so many, he guesses, and leaves it at that.

Simmons examined him before taking a lengthy moment to zip up his case. Probably to mull over whether or not he wanted unnecessary human interaction like the introverted nerd he seemed to be.

"... Well. Just to avoid that. Sure," he hesitantly decided.

"Wow, try not to sound _too_ excited." Grif pulled out his phone quickly but not too quickly because he wasn't excited about anything in particular. He looked at Simmons expectantly, ignoring the feeling of relief that passed through him for whatever reason.

"Oh, finally! You're going to _come?_ About time-- but better later than too soon, right?" Donut poked his dumb, cheery face between theirs. Grif and Simmons cringed in unison. As the Blues approached them, Donut kept blabbering on.

"Do you have Bassbook, Simmons? Did you know Church works at the company that made it? Oh, it's kind of a secret, but _get this_\-- since he was one of the lead developers, he got to name it, and he named it _that_ because Caboose--"

"Hello! Yes, that is me," Boose intervened loudly beside him. Church, dragged by his wrist closely behind, somehow managed to look both horrified and relieved. Grif's seen his roommate induce weirder reactions from the guy, though. He watched Simmons' expression light up, completely oblivious to the social dynamic of Church's painfully evident crush.

"Oh, I didn't know you were a programmer-- that's really cool. It's not much, but I've been doing some web design when I have free time," he directed at Church, who immediately initiated Nerd Mode by pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose in an exaggerated motion. Oh _God_. Tucker was right yesterday about there being two of them now.

The geeks bantered back and forth about computer shit-- blah blah something about "full stacks"-- all Grif knew is that the stacks they were referring to weren't pancakes, so therefore, it was boring as fuck. He may have been bored enough to casually and unintentionally examine Simmons because there was nothing else to do; the physical ease, lack of tension, shoulders falling-- it made him look taller somehow-- voice pitched slightly higher as his words fell out quickly, earnestly. It was clear how passionate he was, and it was admittedly kind of cool to witness him relax after the non-stop high-strung-dick experience Grif's had to deal with so far.

But, it's not-- it wasn't _actually_ cool. Because it was still nerdy as fuck.

Church gave the link to the gang's Bassbook server before parting ways for the afternoon. And seriously, it was like watching Simmons get a person's number for the first time, literally shaking when he tapped the invite into his app. It was c-- _funny_.

The thought reminded Grif that he never got his phone number. Which was fine, since there would be other opportunities. To help out his coworker. Plus, he could just DM him, only if it was really necessary, for the time being.

\---

The first thing Grif did after arriving at Room 340 that evening was lean against the glass wall by the grand piano-- his usual spot. It was a nice view of Broadway, which generally served as a good backdrop to the tunes coming from Boose's bass as he practiced.

Church was sitting at the Steinway's bench before he walked in the room-- his usual spot. If he finished up all of his work requests for the day, he'd put his laptop away and hunt and peck at the keys to match the pitches that drifted by. He missed all of them, normally. And, if Church actually hit something, his eyes would widen, and his voice would crack from shrieking about how he _got one_, and Boose would stop playing to rush over and hug him, all in a chaotic five seconds. It didn't happen too often, but it still put a smile on Grif's face whenever it did. Just a little one though-- he wasn't that sappy.

The second thing Grif did after leaning against the wall was open the Bassbook app on his phone, just to check what Simmons' username was because it was either dorky as fuck, or professional, but also dorky. He was pretty disappointed when "_Simmons_" scrolled by on his screen in the group chat's automated welcome message. So he figured he should message him to tell him that. Because it really was necessary.

> [7:52:43 PM] orange u mad: cmon man ur tag can be more original  
[7:53:01 PM] orange u mad: i vote 'hot4trumpet' sounds perfect for u nerdass

When he didn't respond right away, Grif started up a conversation with Church, definitely not checking his phone every couple of minutes.

"So are y'actually gonna learn piano to play with us? I dunno if that's a good idea for our combo, though."

"Oh, fuck off." Church kept plunking random, off-key notes.

"No, I mean it. Not only do _you_ suck, but Boose would be too distracted trying to help you." Grif moved to lean against the piano to provide Church with a Look.

"I don't need Caboose's help! 'Sides, I'm on call with work and you have a pianist already."

"Yeah, _okay_. And dude, Kimball's pianist is a total tool. He's just our backup until we find someone decent-- like, a decent human being." He got a headache just thinking about the guy.

"Well, you're at a goddamn _music school_, you ever think about asking people around if they're interested?"

Church had a point, but. Meh. Too many people here would take it seriously. Or they were too friendly, go-getters-- not really his style. He just wanted to play some decent jazz and hang out with his friends.

Grif checked his phone one last time to see if any notifications had popped up before grabbing his trumpet case from the floor. Maybe he could grab a room upstairs, not-practice for an hour or two, then take a nap. Good plan.

"Great idea, Church, I think I'll go do just that!" he responded like rays of sunshine were coming out of his ass. Grif patted his larger roommate's shoulder as he made his way out, saying, "Be gentle with him while I'm out, 'kay, buddy?" with a grin pointed at Church.

"I think Church thinks it is more fun when I am rough, but okay!" Caboose replied behind him as the door closed. _Oh Christ._ He needs to make sure they spend less time around Donut.

Empty practice rooms were difficult to find. At this rate, Grif was about to give up and play in the hallway instead. Or sleep in front of one until somebody left.

His feet shuffled down the last hallway, listening into each to discover that every room was occupied. Meh. Hallway it is.

Grif plopped down at the end of the corridor. He opened his case, removed some sheet music, and scanned it while tapping his fingers on the floor. The pianist in the room closest to him went through a variety of baroque pieces, most of which Grif didn't really care for, but he hummed along anyway. It was good, and he wasn't going to knock someone's genre preference, especially when they played so well and were likely just studying a particular composer or era.

Bored with reading BGSO's repertoire within a few minutes, he decided to bust out his horn and improv on top of the nearby piano's classical tunes in a-- hmm, what was he feeling like?-- 1940's New Orleans jazz style. Whoever it was would probably appreciate his accompaniment, since it'd make it way more lively.

It took about a minute of hearing the piano stall and restart repeatedly before the door swung open.

"Hey, um, d'you mind not-- Grif?" Simmons' nervous smile quickly disappeared.

"Dude, what the _fuck_\-- was that you?!" Grif yelled and jumped to his feet.

"Jesus Chri-- What? Was _what_ me?"

"The piano! Dude, get back inside." He quickly slid into the practice room and pulled Simmons in after him.

"Grif, what the hell are you--"

"How's your improv?"

_"What?"_ Clearly addled, Simmons sat down on the bench and put his hands in his lap, staring at Grif.

"We need a regular for our combo. Play something. Autumn Leaves-- ready, go." Grif snapped his fingers and pointed at him.

"What-- no, fuck you! And I thought you said you didn't practice! So what the fuck are you doing here?"

"Not practicing. So do you know most of the standards?" Grif asked eagerly.

"I don't fucking play jazz, idiot! I mean, I've obviously done theory analysis on some in the past but I don't--"

"Well that's stupid. If you've studied it you should at least play it. I'm surprised you haven't memorized everything you've ever read, nerd."

"Grif, get out and go practice somewhere else," Simmons seethed.

"Alright," he conceded, "but when I'm walking out of here, I better hear something more boppin'-- like funk or maybe some pop songs if you're up for it." Simmons shot a glare as Grif waved and exited to let him to practice some improv as their group's newest member.

As he walked away, he listened to the same baroque shit from a few minutes ago. A smirk drew across his face.

_Hell yes_. Grif finally found their keys player.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> p.s. Bassbook is effectively gonna be Discord for this fic


	7. Mean To Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wash relaxes with coworkers before rehearsal.

Wash eyed the burly man swiping away phone notifications across the table as he sipped his pumpkin spice latte.

Normally, he preferred his coffee black. But after sharing probably hundreds of drinks with the biggest sweet tooth in the entire orchestra, he became accustomed to the massive, sugary concoctions Maine always had him order.

Although Wash should be used to the comical contrasts that constructed his friend, they were still amusing, even after three years of seeing him nearly every day. Maine was built like a brick shithouse, so watching him during rehearsal would lead one to believe that he was literally playing the world's smallest violin. And no one expected a daunting, herculean physique like that to be fueled almost entirely by strawberry frosted cupcakes and mocha chocolate chip frappuccinos. But, well. That's the anomaly that was Maine.

Eyes still glued to his phone, the man flexed the fingers of his free hand resting on the table, making a grabbing motion. Wash, wearing a half-smile, passed the cup over his sketchbook to place it on the solid oak surface between them. Maine took it, then glanced over the lid as he pulled the latte to his lips. He tilted his head to the side a few inches, furrowing his brows as he drank.

"I'm fine," muttered Wash, sounding not-fine.

Maine put the cup back down and cocked a disbelieving eyebrow.

"_Really_. It's not bothering me as much. His continuous frustration is... understandable." Wash picked up his pencil and resumed scribbling wires along the half-drawn yet detailed robotic hand in his book.

The eyebrow lowered to shape Maine's face into an unimpressed stare.

"_Maine,_" Wash groaned, "I've said it about a hundred different ways. Tucker doesn't know what Director Church-- he's just not privy to the circumstances."

During the past few weeks while frequenting their usual coffee shop, bizarrely-named Outpost 48-A (Wash argued that the owner was likely a millennial hipster, but Maine adamantly disagreed), the hot topic of their single-voiced discussions has been Tucker's cold-as-ice shoulder.

It was an uncomfortable situation, no doubt about it. Wash had his own qualms and reasons to be upset about Dr. Church, but he wasn't about to bring that steaming pile of negativity into his relationship (or rather, lack thereof) with his deskmate. Unfortunately, Tucker didn't share the same mindset. Which was fair. After all, he was bumped out of his hard-won principal spot as an unfortunate byproduct of Wash's mistake. So, objectively, his troubles were completely Wash's fault.

He couldn't blame Tucker for blaming him. Or for being... _unresponsive_, whenever Wash tried to offer help to alleviate the tension and build some level of trust. Right, he couldn't blame Tucker.

But being a total asshole to him still made him feel like shit.

"I'm the bad guy in his eyes right now. It'll just take time. For him to learn to work with me."

Maine snorted and folded his arms, eyes following the pencil strokes. Wash paused to roll his eyes.

"I've tried talking to him."

Another raised brow, indicating that Wash didn't try hard enough.

"For someone who doesn't talk, you sure have a lot to say," Wash deadpanned. He carried on with his sketch.

Soft bells jingled as the door to the cafe opened. Maine tapped his arm to get his attention, raising his chin towards the redhead who had just entered.

"Oh... hey, Simmons, right? BGSO?" Wash called out, startling the other man.

"Ah! Uh, yeah! Oh, um, you're the principal violist, right?" Simmons responded hesitantly as he walked over.

"Correct," stated Wash, dropping his pencil to shake the newcomer's hand. "You can call me Wash. This is Maine. You're free to join us if you'd like," he offered with a friendly pat on the stool next to him. "Not much time before we all need to head over to the hall, anyway."

"Oh-- sure!" Simmons' voice cracked. He cleared his throat. "Ahem, I mean, yeah, that'd be-- that's cool. Right. Let me, uh, just get my coffee and I'll be back over," he stammered before swiftly making his way to the counter. Hmm... nervous guy. Wonder how long he'll survive before the Reds break him in. Or just break him.

Maine glanced at Simmons' back, then mimed out the motion of eating something like a sandwich.

"Yeah, he's in back. He's the one that replaced Georgia." Wash watched Simmons check his phone repeatedly as he waited for the barista to make his drink. "... Would you remind me why you use a burger to show you're talking about Grif instead of-- oh, I dunno, pretending to play a trumpet?"

Maine shrugged as the lankier man returned with his coffee, sliding onto the empty stool. Wash closed his sketchbook and turned to face him.

"It's nice to have someone who isn't a complete goof-off in the back row. You're sounding great, by the way," he admitted with a polite nod. _Wow_\-- didn't think anyone could turn that shade of red that quickly. Or stutter that many times attempting to say a single word of thanks.

"So, how's your first week going so far, Simmons?" Wash asked to help him out, a small grin tugging at his cheeks.

"It's--," he began to respond when his phone vibrated. Simmons huffed as he took it out to silence it.

"It's good. The repertoire is... okay? I mean, don't get me wrong, Dr. Church has great taste! But..."

Maine and Wash bobbed their heads sympathetically. "Gets kinda boring sometimes for brass, huh?"

"Right, and-- oh, I shouldn't be complaining, considering you guys have the opposite problem with how much you have to play and work so hard in rehearsal and--" Wash cut off his ramble with a short laugh.

"Don't worry about it." He patted his arm before grabbing the cup from Maine to take a sip.

The phone buzzed again. Simmons made a strange face as he scanned the screen before silencing it once more. Wash was able to make out the username _orange u mad_ on the Bassbook notification from the corner of his eye before it disappeared.

"_So,_" Wash drew out with amusement, surveying the trumpeter. "How are the Reds? They can be... interesting to work with, from what I've seen."

"Yeah," Simmons scoffed. "_Interesting_ isn't the first word I'd use." His phone buzzed again and he grinded his teeth. "Plus, _some_ of them can be persistent assholes."

"Well, you seem to be getting along well enough, considering you're messaging them outside of work." It didn't seem physically possible, but Simmons somehow blushed further at Wash's comment.

"If by, 'getting along well,' you mean, 'constantly being harassed by a lazy asshole,' then yeah, I'm doing great." The redhead sighed and downed some coffee as the other two smirked. His eyes were trained on Maine's hand as it grasped the latte in front of Wash.

"How long have you guys been in the orchestra?"

Maine held up four fingers as he drank.

"Three years, myself," Wash noted.

"Ah. So, uh. How long have you, um, y'know...?" Simmons trailed off suggestively, flitting his eyes back and forth between the two.

Wash provided a quizzical stare as his larger companion handed their shared PSL back before guessing the end of the question.

"Known each other? Just in BGSO. Feels a lot longer though, huh?" he added, and Maine nodded.

"Oh, uh, nevermind," Simmons laughed awkwardly.

"... So are you like his bodyguard?" he directed towards Maine.

Maine nodded with a completely straight face, causing Wash to half-heartedly punch his shoulder. He presumed his answer wasn't expected based on the follow-up question, but he didn't press further considering Simmons didn't, either.

The conversation proceeded with Wash explaining a brief history of the orchestra and some fun facts about a few of its members that he would most likely encounter. As the trumpet player sat near the percussionists, he felt a strong sense of responsibility to warn Simmons about the eccentric trio. He talked about the director's son's tendency to get booted from the group every other concert series. And he waved off Simmons' apologies about his vague simplification of his 'demotion' down to the viola section. He didn't mention the leaderboard, though. That's a whole thing he didn't want to get into this early in the morning. Or ever.

"You know, you're a lot different from how Tucker described you," Simmons mentioned.

"Wait, Tucker? He was talking about me?" Wash said far too eagerly. "I mean. What do you mean?" _Wow_. Best recovery ever. Of all time. He could feel Maine's smirk burning into the side of his head.

"Oh, it's just that, uh. Well, I wouldn't really worry about it. Your name came up a few times after rehearsal. You seem really nice, though," Simmons declared almost pitifully.

"... '_Nice_.' Compared to what he had to say," Wash clarified dryly, keeping his features emotionless.

Simmons grimaced. Maine pocketed his phone and stood up from his seat.

"Yeah. We should head out. Concerts are tomorrow, so today's going to be a bit stuffy." Wash packed his art supplies into his bag and slung it over his shoulder. His colleagues nodded.

Wash and Simmons waited for Maine to purchase half a dozen more cupcakes from the counter before walking towards the concert hall down the street.


	8. I’ve Got You Under My Skin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Simmons messages his coworkers.

Seriously, again?

God fucking dammit.

Sitting hunched over his phone as others shuffled out of the hall around him, Simmons opened his Bassbook app. To his surprise, he found that there were no new notifications from Grif, for _once_ in the past week.

He figured the asshole must’ve snuck the now too-familiar orange USB thumb drive behind his folder while he was preoccupied with packing up at the tail end of rehearsal. Simmons leered momentarily at the unwanted gift before he began messaging Grif.

> [12:02 PM] Simmons: You left something on my stand.
> 
> [12:02 PM] orange u mad: nah man p sure thats urs
> 
> [12:02 PM] orange u mad: uh i mean no idea what ur talkin about.
> 
> [12:03 PM] Simmons: Huh. I don't use USB drives. And I’m not compromising my PC with unknown external storage. Guess I'll trash it if it's not yours.
> 
> [12:03 PM] orange u mad: ok ok u caught me guilty as charged
> 
> [12:03 PM] orange u mad: happy?? now that i officially confirmed the source and its from me so ull listen to it?????
> 
> [12:03 PM] Simmons: Even more reason not to.

Simmons pointed his nose in the air dismissively at no one in particular and grabbed his case. He'd have enough time to catch his bus back to K-Town, so there was no need to rush. He grumbled, shoving the thumb drive into his pocket before trailing behind the remaining musicians exiting the stage.

That was the fourth time he found one of Grif's "_presents_" since their run in at the practice room. At least Grif seemed to be changing it up, since it broke the previous pattern of finding one on his chair before each concert that weekend. And even that didn’t make sense to Simmons. From what he'd seen and understood, Grif prided himself in showing up the last minute to anything that had a deadline or schedule. Did he get to their performances early, before himself (who admittedly arrived almost an hour earlier than everyone else anyway), purely to fuck with him? Why couldn't he put the same kind of effort into literally anything else?

Regardless, he retaliated every time by throwing the USB drive loaded with jazz classics in Grif's lap as soon as he sat beside him. When Grif whined dramatically, Simmons smirked. In annoyance. Okay, it was kind of amusing for some reason. But mostly annoying.

And speaking of annoying, he had to give the Reds credit-- at least they behaved like professionals when they actually had to perform all three of their recitals. Well, except for Donut reading an interior design magazine during two of the movements on Saturday. And Lopez putting on headphones to listen to music for most of Sunday. And Sarge getting upset about the Blues being too busy to look back at his rude hand gestures a few times. And Grif holding out a typoed note on his phone for him to read that asked for his number with the excuse that he needed it in case Bassbook went down. As if he'd give Grif yet another method of pestering him to join his group.

Okay-- he could only give them credit for being _slightly_ more professional than they normally were.

Having stepped off the bus, the scent of savory and sweet meats wafting from the nearby building became almost overbearing. Simmons bowed politely to the owner as he entered Mama’s, the humble Korean restaurant situated below his apartment.

The tiny studio was the most affordable housing he could find last year that was close enough to bus to school without it being too inconvenient. And although it was small and a tad run down, he really couldn't complain. A roof over his head, a half-decent bed, and a good internet connection were his only real living requirements. Other amenities would be nice to have, sure. But other apartments were too expensive and-- yeah, not going to think about loans again this early in the day.

Plus, the owners were quite nice (perhaps because he was their sole tenant), always giving him extra portions of food when he dined there, although there was a slight language barrier. He could really only order three menu items because he hadn't figured out how to pronounce the other dishes or really knew what they were, and even though the owner asked him if he wanted anything else, he always replied that he's good because he didn't want to seem like an uncultured dumbass, so now they probably think he's an extremely picky eater that refuses to have anything but rice, but that's okay because at least his pride was intact. And it's not like anyone saw him practicing using chopsticks in his room by picking up random objects, so he definitely appeared to be at least somewhat-versed in eating Asian cuisine and not awkward in the slightest.

Simmons chewed another mouthful of rice, squinting at his phone when it vibrated the table. 

> [12:47 PM] orange u mad: so did u listen to it yet

He sighed and slid a finger across the screen.

> [12:47 PM] Simmons: I’m not even home yet!
> 
> [12:47 PM] orange u mad: oh good so ur gonna when u get there
> 
> [12:47 PM] Simmons: You’re such an idiot.
> 
> [12:47 PM] orange u mad: u still didnt say no :)

Simmons tried not to think about it too much, but he couldn't recall a time in his life where he ever messaged someone more often, which is saying something considering he used to run an MMO raid group. He wasn't sure why he'd even humor Grif with responding. But something compelled him to every time he saw that stupid, immature Trollface meme profile icon pop up alongside Grif's Bassbook name with a new DM. Wait, he couldn't _possibly_ be enjoying-- right, back to not thinking about it.

"Gamsahamnida," Simmons thanked the owner as she happily handed him a bag with two more takeout containers full of rice. He tried not to blush when she noted his pronunciation was improving, and bowed his head to take his leave. Up the rickety stairs in the corner of the room, he walked through the hallway to enter his 300 square foot abode.

The computer chair creaked in protest as Simmons leaned back to look at the clock on his bedside table. Plenty of time to finish his paper on Baroque etudes, but no time like the present to knock it out so he could get to studying.

As he powered on his computer, he retrieved the USB drive out of his pocket and placed it next to his keyboard. He ignored it, preoccupied by the unread Bassbook notifications on his desktop. The Reds and Blues’ group chat lit up with plans to meet tomorrow at Grif and Caboose’s place. Right, he had time to respond, and he did tell Grif he’d go the next time they met up. Just to avoid whatever it was that Donut threatened.

> [1:24 PM] Simmons: What time should we get there?
> 
> [1:24 PM] PinkTacoCat: Oh oh!!! Simmons is online, **@Simmons** can you make it at 8pm for team poker night?? I’ll cum over and poke you in 50 other ways if you can’t!! ;3
> 
> [1:24 PM] deBOOSEy: hELLO SIMON!!!!!
> 
> [1:24 PM] orange u mad: gdi donut
> 
> [1:25 PM] Simmons: You don’t have to @ me when I literally just asked. But yes, I can make it. And hey, Caboose.
> 
> [1:25 PM] RED-OR-DEAD: SIMMONS..... we need more men to defeat these diabolical blues... dont let your fellow soldiers down....
> 
> [1:25 PM] deFragmented: Hey, man. Yeah, Blues are up like 5 games, it’ll be nice to have some competition for once
> 
> [1:25 PM] Simmons: I'm pretty decent at cards, so I'll do my best to make a comeback. Either that, or I'm switching to your side.
> 
> [1:25 PM] RED-OR-DEAD: NO..defecting... TRAITOR
> 
> [1:25 PM] Aquaman_ExceptWetter: ooooo yeah lol time for a nerd off~
> 
> [1:26 PM] orange u mad: ^^^^^^ bet u count cards like church
> 
> [1:26 PM] deFragmented: I DON’T COUNT CARDS!! You idiots just don’t understand strategy

The little red unread badge appeared over the Trollface icon in his DMs. Simmons sighed as he clicked it to see what Grif had to say about listening to his recordings. But lo and behold, it was only general harassment. Great.

> [1:27 PM] orange u mad: dude i forgot to ask earlier but why do u double space between sentences
> 
> [1:27 PM] orange u mad: ur on a pc not a fukin typewriter get with the times
> 
> [1:27 PM] Simmons: It looks better! Kerning is helpful for sentence delineation.
> 
> [1:27 PM] orange u mad: but u also have to press the space bar an extra time
> 
> [1:28 PM] Simmons: Oh no. God forbid putting in minuscule effort to make something better.
> 
> [1:28 PM] orange u mad: nah u just dont wanna admit u like being inefficient
> 
> [1:28 PM] orange u mad: btw r u gonna rename to something cool yet
> 
> [1:28 PM] orange u mad: sry typo meant to say nerdy
> 
> [1:28 PM] orange u mad: also hey listen to the usbbbbb

Yep okay time to start homework. Simmons huffed and minimized the app, opened up some music, and threw on his headphones. He pursed his lips, glancing at the orange _present_ next to his hand. Grif's constant bickering about playing in his combo lined his mind.

His problem wasn’t entirely with the genre, but he did prefer others to most forms of jazz. It was more about performing on piano in front of others. But that’s something he couldn’t see himself explaining to Grif. Or anyone else, for that matter; himself included.

Well, it couldn't really hurt to listen, at least. And it's not like he was doing it to humor Grif. He listened to music while he wrote papers, anyway. So it's not like it was anything out of the ordinary.

He was gonna fucking kill Grif if he got a virus, though.

Simmons plugged in the USB stick and started the first song in the folder titled, "_For Nerd_."


	9. Prelude to a Kiss (Part 1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Church plays poker with his friends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lots of life stuff goin' on, so a lack of updating recently-- but I have a two-parter incoming to help get back up to speed!

Church cleared his throat and adjusted his glasses. He ran his fingers through his hair, tidying it up one last time before knocking on the door.

A hefty grocery tote weighed down his other hand, filled with assorted beer and hot cocoa packets. He included the latter because he _really_ didn't wanna hear Caboose whining about Grif using up all of his favorite fall- and winter-time drink mix, so Church was really just doing himself a favor. Well, it's not that the whining happened yet-- he just happened to notice the pantry's stash was running low last time he was over, anyway. He was only mitigating Caboose being upset for everyone else's sake.

As usual, it took three booming Caboose-sized stomps accompanied by barely-muffled shouts of, _"Oh-- oh-- Guys, guys! I bet it's Church!!"_ before the door swung open, and Church braced himself for impact. And, as usual, the too-tight embrace from the built-as-hell, taller-by-a-head manchild nearly crushed his fucking lungs, but he had grown used to it at this point. It's not like he wanted to be used to it, but at least it didn't hurt like a bitch anymore. Okay, maybe the warmth was nice sometimes. But only because it was getting cold this time of year. Though, as the air was squeezed out of him, he mused whether or not Caboose greeted anyone else the same way.

"_Church!_ You're finally here!" Caboose lifted him off of his feet with ease, pulling him inside like some sort of sea monster reeling its victim vessel into a maelstrom of friendship.

"God _dammit_, Caboose, I have legs!" he choked out, heat rising up his neck at a quickening pace when he realized that Caboose was, in fact, shirtless. Probably for no fucking reason other than to torture him further.

"Oh. Legs! Yes, you are right, that would be more comfortable," Caboose noted with realization, and thus hoisted Church into piggy-back position behind him because he's a goddamn moron.

"That's not what I-- y'know what, nevermind." Resistance was futile after many prior attempts to escape a similar position. So Church succumbed, mustering up as pissed-off of an expression as he could to make sure the others knew he wasn't enjoying this in any way, ever, period, and also so they would think his face was red and his glasses were getting fogged up from anger, because that's what it was. It's not like those assholes would think it was because of anything else. Right? Right.

"... Where's your fucking shirt, Caboose?" Not blushing, Church rested against the broad, muscular back while being carried towards the living room. His apartment down the street was quite a bit smaller, which wasn't to knock it at all; this place was pretty massive for a two bedroom in the middle of the city. They generally planned game nights at Caboose and Grif's, at least when half of it wasn't a goddamn pigsty due to the lazier of the two. So, like, half the fucking time.

"Well, you see," Caboose looked over his shoulder to explain, "in the last video Maine posted, he asked people who do his workout routines to repost with progress pictures, so yeah, I was trying to take those."

"Wait. You're telling me," Church continued, incredulous and slow, "You just, took off your shirt, and started taking pictures. With several guests over." Not like he had to really clarify because that's exactly the kind of thing he would do.

"Well, pfft, ha, of course not, Church. That would be silly." Caboose received a skeptical look before turning his head forward again. "I can take a selfie all by my selfie, but it is hard to video yourself doing ab exercises! So I asked Lopez to help."

"So you just. Decided to do that." Church's annoyed tone had nothing to do with the fact that he missed watching the reveal of his amazing torso unfold. 'Cause he saw it enough, anyway. _Not like that._ Like, just when he was helping Caboose record stuff. And watching them after. Like, to make sure it. It was a good job or whatever.

"Ah, yeah... but we didn't finish, stupid Tucker ruined it by yelling and being stupid."

"I'll help you with it later," Church proclaimed way too earnestly. God _dammit_. Caboose beamed back at him and he let his own stupid tiny smile slip back in return. _Fuck._

"Someday, I will be popular and have as many followers on BluTube, that will be nice. But people do not like bass as much as they like exercising I guess. Maybe they don't realize they can like both!" His not-best-friend's wistful ambition softened Church's response.

"Pretty sure you're already popular, buddy. Four million subscribers is a lot of people." The guy could barely count to three (which was kinda weird for a musical prodigy, but that was fucking Caboose for you), so he probably didn't comprehend how big his online following really was. The only reason Grif and him could afford living in this place was due solely to his success on the social media platform. But it was pretty annoying for Church because he had become a walking meme, with people on the streets recognizing him as, "that bass slapper's profile icon." Because his icon was just a fucking picture of his own face.

Upon reaching the large coffee table surrounded by the other musicians sitting in various positions on the floor, Caboose plopped Church down and sat at his side like their entrance was abso-fucking-lutely normal. (Just because something happens often doesn't make it any less weird.)

Sarge muttered a string of curses at their arrival, Lopez sitting silently nearby.

"Hey, Church! Don't you know it's unsafe riding bareback?" Donut received the Jesus Christ glare and eye-roll combo from half the room. As he fucking should.

"... Is that normal?" Simmons questioned from across the table.

"Boose is pretty strong, so yeah, I'd say so," Grif commented, resting his phone back on his thigh.

"That's not what I-- god fucking _dammit_, Grif, stop sending me sheet music!" Simmons exclaimed while swiping away a message on his own.

Oh right, it was probably more piano shit. Every day that Church hung out at their place this week, Grif couldn't stop yammering on about how good this dude apparently was and how he needed to play in their jazz combo. If that was the case, he should ask to get some lessons so he can learn to properly accompany Caboose sometime.

"I'm sending it so you can save it and practice it later."

"But I'm literally sitting next to you, you could just show me on your phone instead!"

"So you're saying you wanna see it?" Grif, sporting a cheeky grin, waggled his screen in front of Simmons. The latter released an exasperated groan.

Church chortled as he passed drinks around the table. Yeah, okay-- maybe Tucker _did_ have a knack for these kinds of things. He hadn't seen Grif this animated in a while, which is pretty noticeable because he was otherwise a total sloth. Kinda embarrassing as hell to have such an obvious crush, though.

While Lopez shuffled decks of cards and the others explained Team Texas Hold'em rules to Simmons, Church grabbed the haphazardly discarded tee from the nearby couch and threw it back at Caboose. He might as well make some hot chocolate while he's up, too. Again, just to not inconvenience anyone else with any interruptions while they gamed. From the kitchen, he listened to the dumbass conference down the hall.

"Simmons! We practiced for this war, we'll give them a real bloodbath!"

"God, Sarge, don't remind me how much War we played last week. That game is boring as fuck."

"You guys play stupid shit like that and Go Fish-- how would practicing that help, it's not poker!"

"Dude, why d'you think they fuckin' lose all the time?" He could hear Tucker's eyes roll.

"Hey, we play Old Maid, too!" Donut sulked, "I always get played by that dirty whore, though!" ... and Church could feel the unanimous "no one cares" energy emanating from the next room, too. He nabbed a box of Cappy Crunch from the pantry before returning to place the warm mug in front of his thankfully now-fully-clothed desk partner.

"So, Mr. Simmons! Um, did you name your instrument like Grif?" Caboose asked curiously as Lopez began passing out cards.

"Uh, just Simmons," he corrected, probably stalling admitting the inevitable cringey name.

"You named it Simmons? That is very confident of you."

"Is it so you can say you blow yourse--"

"It's Tormod," Simmons said to stop Donut, thank Christ.

"What, is that like Dutch or something?" Church asked.

"It's... an acronym. The Omniscient Ruthless Master Of Doom," he clarified sheepishly. "I named it that in junior high, it's not like I would name it that now."

"Yeah, right, dude. What about your picc trumpet? It's probably something nerdy as fuck, like, uh-- Gjallarhorn." Grif snorted, but squinted at Simmons' silent and awkward fidget. "Oh my fucking god, it's actually Gjallarhorn."

"At least it's not Gus," Tucker commented.

"... What? You named yours Gus? Why?"

"Meh. Stupid name, easy to remember." Grif shrugged, and Simmons looked offended for some reason.

"My french horn is eight-dee!" said Donut.

"Eighty?"

"No, silly-- like, 8 and D! There's a bunch of equal signs between them. When you write it out, it makes it look like a di--"

"Yeah, this is a brass thing, or you guys are just a bunch of losers, same thing to me. No one names their strings." Caboose pouted at Church's assumption. 

"My upright bass is named Freckles. It is because there are spots from when I spilled orange juice. He's okay now, though. I learned to take better care of him." God, he can't believe he's secretly in love with this fucking moron.

"Mine's named Queen Emily. After the one that got away," said Sarge with a distant yearning. "She was trouble in all the right kind of ways. And it's tradition to name it after a fine lady for luck and protection when you're on the open sea."

"What? That's for naming boats. Do you practice on a boat...?" Simmons asked hesitantly, because it honestly wouldn't be that surprising coming from the batshit old man.

"Wait, you have a boat? Oh ho, dude, take me next time you go, I bet you can totally pick up chicks with a--"

"I knew you were a pirate," Caboose flatly interrupted Tucker.

"Oh, right!" Simmons turned to Grif. "This conversation reminds me, I finally thought of a user nickname for the group chat." Grif's eyes lit up, matching his counterpart's apparent excitement.

"About time, dude! So what is it?"

"I was thinking 'Marooned'..." His tone became more fake and chipper as he quipped, "Because I feel like I'm shipwrecked with a bunch of idiots every rehearsal!"

Church let out a surprised laugh. "Finally, someone that has the same problems as me." He was delivered a shoulder jab and disapproving nudge from the teammates on either side.

Huh. Well, Simmons didn't seem half bad-- the more the trumpeter complained about his colleagues throughout the evening, the more he appreciated his fellow nerd's presence. (But Church still probably wasn't as nerdy as this guy.) He had a good instinct that they'd probably get along well for some reason, though. Maybe he'll ask for those piano lessons sooner rather than later.


End file.
